Chapter Twenty I Know What I Like #4
Griffin huffs out a breath, shaking his head. “Yeah, probably.”
He knocks the doorframe as if announcing his leave but then continues to linger.
I wonder if he wants to talk about the bar.
The weird moment between us. Maybe he just wants to forget it.
I would understand why. Griffin doesn’t need another woman harboring a schoolgirl crush in a world where he’s everyone’s schoolgirl crush.
I must be thinking too hard, because I sway a little in place, despite sitting on the floor. He chuckles.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“You.”
“I’m not even making jokes.”
“I know.”
“So, I’m just…funny…looking?”
He snorts. “No. You’re beautiful.”
“Stop.”
Griffin says nothing in response but still stares. But he doesn’t drift down to my breasts or the slit in my skirt that is rising dangerously close to my hips. He’s focused on my eyes.
“What?” I ask.
“I like having you here.”
“Here?”
“Around, in general,” he says. “In this house.”
“You mean in this blank museum?”
“It’s not that bad, is it?”
“It’s so cold. You gotta decorate if I’m gonna be here.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Then maybe I will.”
He lingers for a moment more, so I ask, “Aren’t you gonna go to bed?”
“When?”
“Now.”
“No,” he answers.
“Why?”
“I don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone.”
“But you’re right across the hall,” I counter.
“And I’ve been around too many drunk people to know even that can be too far.”
He takes me in a moment longer before rolling up his shirtsleeves to his forearms, then securing them at the elbows. “I’ll be back in two seconds with water, all right?”
“Can I get in bed?”
“Of course.”
I don’t expect him to bend down and gather me into his arms, but he does, carrying me like a bride to the mattress. I get bleary-eyed the moment my head hits the silk pillow.
He walks toward the doorway, but I call out.
“Hey, Griffin?”
He turns, placing a palm on the doorjamb. “Yeah?”
“You’re very kind. Nice too. But kind. Which is more important.”
He squints at me, with little lines fanning out beside his eyes. A smile without smiling. An acknowledgment.
“Thank you, B.”
“I like when you call me B. It feels like we’re friends.”
“Because we are.”
“Well, then…I’m sorry, friend,” I say.
The happy lines beside his eyes disappear. “Why?”
“Because of everything tonight. Getting drunk. Talking to Beau. Falling in your lap.”
His jaw tightens again, and he shakes his head. “Don’t apologize for any of that. I’m not here to control how you drink or who you talk to.”
“And about your lap?”
“Poe knocked into you. I’ll talk to him about that tomorrow.”
“Give him a piece of your mind?”
“Obviously,” he says. “Though his hangover might be punishment enough.” He gives a joking smile.
My heart is still erratic, watching him stand there, balancing from foot to foot.
I swallow. “I’m sorry about what happened…while I was…sitting on you.”
He immediately shakes his head. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“No, but…I’m dressed up, so I get it.”
He furrows his brow. “What does any of that have to do with it?”
“I’m pretty tonight.”
“You’re always pretty.”
“I shouldn’t have stayed there and moved around and—”
He huffs out a laugh. “Believe it or not, I’m not just getting random erections whenever. I’m a man in my thirties, not a teenager.”
“But I’m not the type of woman you go for.”
He crosses his arms over his broad chest. “And who says that?”
“I do. Society does. History does. I’m not the type of woman rock stars go for.”
He shakes his head and tongues his cheek. “I know what I like.”
“You don’t—”
“I know what I like, B.”
This isn’t a real conversation. Maybe I’m dreaming already. Maybe I should force myself back to sleep, and then I’ll wake up and I’ll be back in Elk Grove. No Grammys. No tight dresses. No Griffin and beautiful smiles and running into Beau again.
Just cold feet under quilted blankets in mom’s craft room.
Writing.
Working.
“Starlet dropped me,” I confess.
“What?”
“Two streaming services wanted Birds. But Starlet doesn’t anymore.”
“So you just have one pitch now?”
I nod. “Connection,” I answer. I have no clue if all this makes sense, but I’m too drunk to clarify further.
Griffin swallows. He probably needs water. So do I.
“We’ll make it happen,” he says. “You’re gonna get this show.”
I hesitate before finally saying, “Okay.”
I think he will try his best.
But neither of us can control a dang thing.
I really need some water.
He must read my mind, because Griffin raps his knuckles on the doorframe and says, “I’m gonna go get you some water. Just…stay here.”
His strides eat up the floor with his long legs.
His hair cascades behind him. I remember the first time I saw him backstage at the variety show when he rushed down that corridor with purpose too.
A man who didn’t care about anyone else or their opinions.
Or at least, that’s what I thought at the time.
Now I know better. He cares about Ava. He cares about his band.
I hope this man cares about me. Even a little bit.
That’s the last thing I think before falling asleep.